The Morning Gift
by ChasingRainbows90
Summary: Jac / Jonny :)
1. Chapter 1

**This should have been an update - however, Jac and Jonny will not play ball in my head for any of my other fics though they are quite happy to give me ideas for this. So I'm hoping that now that writing it will get them to behave for my other fics (:D). I'm not overly liking the title but I really struggled to name this. I hope it's ok and thank you to anyone who reads. **

_It started with a text message_

"You free tonight Jonny Mac?" Mo Effanga peered at her best friend as he rifled through his locker for his mobile. He'd thrown it in there earlier in a fit of annoyance, having received far too many text messages from well-meaning relatives enquiring as to whether Baby Maconie had seen fit to make his or her appearance yet. The only issue was that now he was feeling more than a little bit guilty that not having had his phone on him could have meant he'd missed a message from Jac.

"Not sure" was the non-committal reply as his hand finally settled upon his mobile. Pulling it out, he opened it, immediately checking for missed calls – of which they were 0 – before turning to the text messages of which there were a number from his sisters and aunties recommending ways in which they could get the baby moving and again nothing from Jac. He knew he shouldn't be surprised. In the last few months although they had been civil, their relationship hadn't really progressed beyond text messages demanding that he bring her food at all-manner of hours and the occasional invitation to important events like scans. Though there were times when he'd felt they were becoming closer before the door would slam shut once more. He was altogether grateful that she'd allowed him involvement given at times she'd threatened to cut him off entirely – during their more heated discussions.

"Still no sign of the sprog?" there was a tilt to Mo's head as she asked, and she quickly ducked as Jonny playfully swatted in her direction. She was well aware of his frustration, and to an extent Jac finally having been forced on to maternity leave had only made him more antsy. At least with her here, he could keep an eye on her. Mo knew that deep down Jonny was worried that Jac wouldn't inform him that she'd gone in to labour and that instead she'd slip off alone to the private clinic she'd booked and send him a text later informing him that his son or daughter had arrived. If he was lucky a photo would be added. It was surprising to all Jac had gone overdue. The hospital sweepstake had believed she would labour on Darwin and give birth in Bay 3 before completing afternoon surgery, and to an extent Mo had been able to understand this theory or at least up until the surgery part.

"No" Jonny heaved a sigh as he changed from his uniform in to his normal clothes and pulled his bag free from his locker. He shook his head a little as he thought of it. He had been near certain that baby would arrive on Christmas day, he'd even cancelled a visit back to Scotland for fear that he'd miss something. It stemmed from things he'd heard, Mo remarking in jest that Elliot hadn't known about Rosemary's baby and how the buzz around the hospital had adopted the idea that the baby could have demonic potential. It had seemed fitting then that the baby would arrive on December 25th. It was only later when he'd remembered his own comment – about how any child of hers would have an evens chance of being the antichrist that the idea had been cemented in his mind.

"She must be going out of her mind" she was shaking her head a little at the idea. She couldn't imagine Jac sat at home in her flat, watching daytime television and trying to keep herself entertained away from the hustle and bustle of the ward. Jonny gave her a slight grin.

"Elliot's been giving her paperwork type stuff to do – I don't think it's for any real purpose" he laughed slightly at the idea of it, but he was thankful to the professor. Although Jac was unlikely to admit it, the drain of her pregnancy was making things a lot harder for her and ultimately just walking down to stairs to the ground floor of her building was getting to be a struggle, so going out when she could only just fit behind the wheel of her chair was something of a nightmare. Not that she was all that willing to let him help her with the shopping or anything, she was still pigheadedly determined that she could do this with very little help from him or anyone else.

"Good old professor Hope" his friend chimed in with a laugh at the professor creating things for their gravid colleague to get up too, to prevent her climbing the walls and getting up to anything that could cause harm to either her or the child. Although they all knew Jac was completely devoted – no matter what she tried to portray – to her child, they all knew that if she had a choice she'd be getting up to everything she had done in the early stages of pregnancy, and before. It was something of an well-worn expression from the consultant 'I'm pregnant, not incompetent'. It had gotten to a point when people had started to complete the phrase – albeit under their breath for fear of the ticking bomb that was Jac Naylor.

"It was that or she hijacks his office – and his food stash" his grin widens, and his tone is jokey although in reality there is a hint of truth. Jac's enforced maternity leave, on the day she hit 40 weeks, had come after a lot of cajoling of poor Elliot who had found his shared office had become a place of danger depending on the mood of his roommate. Over the last few months, he had walked in to find it vomiting, crying hysterically, trying out antenatal exercises, trying to bribe various juniors and support staff to massage her ankles and shouting down the phone-line for seemingly no reason – they had later discovered a survey company had phoned her mobile and asked her somewhat innocent questions to which she had taken offence. So it was to some relief for the professor that the office had once again become a place of safety, though even he would admit he missed the company that came from Jac when she was in one of her better moods. He had become rather close to her, and Jonny knew that he was one of the few visitors she allowed in to her flat.

"Sharing with Jac," Mo paused and grinned "and her hormones can't have been easy" Jonny rolls his eyes a little.

"Blomp really has helped her reign terror over the ward" he twists his lips together, "But it hasn't been all bad has it?" he tries to think of the good, the days were Jac's hormones have been slightly more balanced, and she was much more human and approachable. The days when she came armed with enough food to feed a small army – and was actually willing to share it with the staff around her. She'd even on one occasion bought a birthday cake in, much to the absolute shock of the poor HCA – who had nearly fainted with shock. Nobody quite knew how to react, to the point where Jac had had a hormonal switch and loudly demanded for people to 'eat the cake' though she had not been that polite.

"No, but – and I can't believe I am actually saying this – I miss the old Jac" Mo shook her head in disbelief at the words that had escaped her mouth, "you knew where you stood with her – whereas this Jac is so damn unpredictable, and don't give me the whole you know what it's like to be pregnant talk because I am certain I wasn't that bad" he forces his face in to a look of mock concentration, trying to make it look as if he is puzzling out the conundrum of which pregnant woman was worse though the answer does go in Mo's favour, and she most certainly knows it.

"You win" he concludes and she grins.

"So you free tonight for a drink?" she knows that he would probably end up going to Jac, and that depending on her mood he would most likely end up with the door being slammed in his face. She cannot pretend to understand quite what is going through Jac's mind at this moment, all Mo knows is that she has started to push Jonny away once more, and that is slowly destroying the nurse no matter how much he tries to hide it. He glances at his phone once more.

"I suppose so" at one point Mo would have been hurt to hear the disappointed tone in his voice, to know that she is second best to the moody cow of a consultant who has taken his heart so completely. She has tried to fix them, to get them back together with the aid of Sacha and Elliot but her attempts appear to have backfired spectacularly and now her friend is depressed, and the consultant is trying to hide her pain.

"Then Albie's it is" there's a forced brightness to her tone, that neither of them really feels. She wants her friends – she counts the consultant as a friend now or she does most of the time – to be happy and she knows that for this to happen they need to acknowledge their feelings and tell each other, only that is something at which they both fail.

As they walk out of the locker room side by side, they catch a glimpse of the professor sneaking away his arm linked through the arm of the American psychologist with whom he has become very close over the last few months, to the point where those closest to Elliot had teased him about potential wedding bells and Jac – in a moment of kindness – even offered her baby, once he or she is walking, to be pageboy or bridesmaid.

And then it happens. The buzzing of Jonny's phone which he still holds within his hand. He looks down expecting to see yet another 'Has she had it' text but instead he sees her name printed at the top of the message notification but no text in the actual message box. He frowns, waiting for something else to appear and when nothing does he feels his heart rate quicken. Something has happened to cause her to send nothing more than a blank message, and that means he has to get to her – and he has to now. He gives a rushed explanation to Mo as he dashes away from her. She watches him go hoping that this is the start of something good, and hoping that he doesn't end up getting himself a speeding ticket or worse ending up as a patient himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you to anyone who read part 1 of this and hopefully this part is ok :)**

_It starts with a text _

Jac sits, round bellied and uncomfortable, on the one chair that she still dares use. The sofa has been out of the question for a number of weeks, having found herself in the awkward position of not being able to pull herself in to a standing position from it. The more comfy overstuffed chair, that she now shoots the occasionally longing glance at, had been useable for far long but within its confines she had suffered the same fate the previous week. So now she has relented, and uses the chair which doesn't really do much for her constantly aching spine but does at least allow her to get up when she has to make one of her far to frequent trips to the toilet.

At that point she is having a staring contest, though she is unequally matched to her opponent – the mobile phone which sits on the arm of her chair. She isn't sure how long she has been sitting here, occasionally pressing her finger to the screen to keep it awake. If she let it slip in to standby, she'd win, she'd be the stronger one – the battle of wills won, and yet she cannot seem to let it happen instead as the screen darkens her finger moves on instinct causing it to become bright once more.

She isn't quite sure that she's seeing what's on the screen anymore, but that no longer matters it is burned in to her head. It's not the most interesting screen, it is not one of those childish games which he insists on downloading on to the tablets at work, and his own mobile nor is it a photograph of a loved one. On his phone, with the swipe of a finger you can cause a scan photo to appear on the screen, and she is certain he loses himself staring at the picture. He knows every inch of those photographs, the silhouette of their child not yet born.

At the thought of her baby, a hand slips to her abdomen and so rubs the spot at which her baby had most recently kicked. Beneath the taut skin, you can make out the baby's movements now. She is tired of being pregnant. She has begged in the quiet for her child to make an appearance the coming day. She has pleaded with the unborn despite her protestations when the father has tried to communicate with the baby that it cannot hear in-utero. She had done that so many times, tried to prevent him talking with the child, unable to bear the way her heart pulled as she heard the tone of his words. The love he already held for someone who had not yet lived in this world, someone he had not yet met. Oh she is certain she loves the child too – despite her frustration at the baby's already apparent stubbornness – but she isn't sure she sounds quite that way when she talks of it.

Those around them, they get gooey eyed to hear the father talk of his unborn child. They smile at his excitement and the unbridled joy he cannot help but show. It is emotion like she has never known, to be wanted in such an obvious way and that is why she tries to push him. That is why she stops him talking to the bump, because it is all she can control, because though she hates to admit it she is jealous of her unborn child.

And so now she is locked in a staring contest with his contact page. A stupid photo of him is smiling at her. He'd stolen her phone from her many months before, back when they'd been a couple and amongst other changes, he'd taken this photo and assigned it to his page. It was something she hadn't been able to bring herself to remove, that cheesy grin and sparkling eyes. Her fingers had hovered numerous times over the delete button before she'd closed the edit screen, and found herself staring at him once more, wondering how things had gone so very wrong.

And now everything about the page is taunting her. His number which on dialling would allow her to hear his voice, that beautiful voice that comes to her during her sleeping hours, fills her dreams until she finds herself awake cheeks streaked with tears. She blames her hormones, but knows it is more than that but the excuse is easier to accept. She knows she won't ring it, that she'd probably only reach his answer machine and even if he did pick up she doesn't quite know what to say to him. How do you tell someone you need them when all you've done for so long is push them away?

Even worse is not wanting to say those words, because she hasn't yet accepted it herself, that she does in fact need him, and more than that she wants him too. Those nights when he has appeared, and she has tried to get rid of him, even though she has wanted nothing more than to grab hold of him and never let him escape. But she cannot let herself do that, she has to ignore that tug of her heart, the quickness of its beat and the way her child responds to that.

She bites down hard on her lip as her finger hovers dangerously close to the screen, she can't do this. Seeing him makes things all the harder, and yet a part of her is trying to override everything. He has tried to help, come at her beck and call when she has been brave enough to call him with a demand only to leave him on the doorstep more often than not on acceptance of his offering. She knows it's wrong, that with each message she brings him hope before it is quickly dashed, that even when he makes it through the door she is cold and distant, talks only of the child and little of herself and her state, all the while making it clear that she wants him gone.

She wonders how much of this he sees through, but she rarely dwells on it for long. She blinks at the phone, breaking the game. Technology winning over her, but it is the change in the screen that scares her. She has switched to messaging, his name in the recipient box. A blank space waiting for her to type. So many words she could place within that box, things that need to be said but remain unspoken, unheard. But they are too big for a message, the screen too impersonal as a method of delivery and yet it is the easier option. But she cannot do it.

She stares at the flickering line that awaits letters. The screen taunts her lack of ability, her fear, her weakness. She curses herself for being this way, and wanting what she cannot have. And yet she is desperate. She is alone, and scared of things she cannot see or understand. Feels more than she has let herself feel in a long time, and for the most part she cannot understand the emotions that course her veins. She has forced them to lie dormant for so long that now that come with a vengeance, just as they always did when allowed to break free. Only this time is worse.

She feels the baby wriggle beneath her hand. This baby, the one who is coming, the one who will be with her and not leave. A person on whom she can rely and who will love her, though she fears she will muck it up. This little person holds the key to so very much, a future as a family of two. She hasn't known family for a lifetime, and the closeness of finally getting it is teasing. She can almost taste it, sweet – yet strange - on her tongue. The end of lonely nights, thanks to a bundle of cells given to her on a night that should never have been. A child that never should have come in to existence and yet is so nearly here. She places a lot on a baby not yet born, responsibility for rescuing her.

And yet the child refuses to come. She is waiting, and it stays nestled within her, constricting her organs and making daily tasks harder and yet she loves the child. The promise of what they will bring to her life. She is scared of waiting much longer, of another night of darkness. The echo-y walls of this impersonal space. It is not home, and yet soon it will be. The baby will make it her home. The first home she has known for years.

The screen has changed once more and with horror she realises her finger has slipped. An empty speech bubble had appeared on what had been a blank message screen. The reality of what she has done causing a shudder to run through her body. She hopes that he will think nothing of it, consider it a mistake and nothing more but this is Jonny and she knows he isn't like that. That he'll worry that there is something wrong with the baby and that has left her unable to type a message or ring. He will think of his child, and he will come for it.

She stares at the phone hoping he will respond and that she can put him off. Her fingers hover once more over the onscreen keys, and she knows. She knows she could type a message, tell him it was a mistake, the message sent by accident but her fingers won't move. They won't touch the screen, instead they hang in the air and she wills for them to move, prays that they won't.

And then she hears it the tell-tell rapping at her door. Soft at first, and then more persistent as she heaves her body from its perch. She hasn't moved for too long and her body protests now. Stiffly she walks to the door, knowing that if she doesn't get there quickly he will have knocked it down based on the sound of his fist. She slips it open and steps back as he almost falls through the doorway. She fights the urge to laugh at his comedic prat fall but then she sees the look on his face, the concern, the panic and the way now he has righted himself he looks to her, trying to puzzle out what is going on.

"I'm not in labour" she says finally, with a heavy sigh and a sad shake of her head. He twists his lips and tilts his head as if he is expecting her to say something more. Instead she gestures for him to sit on the sofa, as she tries to work out what on earth to do next.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you to anyone reading / reviewing :) and as usual I hope this is alright **

He settles himself down on the sofa, and watches as Jac waddles awkwardly towards the chair. Her gait altered by her swollen stomach, it had once been a source of amusement for him. He, along with Mo, had teased her good naturedly when the waddle had started making an appearance. It had been subtle at first, the slight altering of her pace and movement to accommodate a change in her centre of gravity, before it had developed in to what it is now. Only seeing her like this is no longer quite such as source of merriment for the nurse, he can see now how uncomfortable it is for her, the weary way in which her body stoops under the additional weight and strain caused by the growing baby. She presses herself in to the chair, and turns to look at him.

"You sent a text" He thinks as soon as the words leave his mouth that they weren't quite what he should have said, that while so many buzz around the still panicked space that is his mind, it is these that become audible. He watches as for a moment her shoulders slump further, and how she tries to recover her expression to one with is neutral, bordering on indifference. He thinks that at one time she would have forced a glower on to her face but he sees the exhaustion and knows that in this moment that would take too much effort – though he knows that too many wrong moves and that would be his reward.

"It was an accident" her words are flat and empty. It is probably his fault, though often he is unable to quite process why. Still he wishes he could keep her present; keep her with him long enough to break through the barriers which she has felt up around her. He notices though that at the very least she is still watching him, her gaze still rests upon his face and that is something resembling progress. He has sat here so often when her line of vision of wandered anywhere other than at him, her way of demonstrating that she is no longer interesting in him, that studying the blank walls is more entertaining to her than the words he speaks.

"An accident?" he raises an eyebrow. He thinks of the phone she uses, how it seems strange to him that an accidental text could be sent from it, particularly a blank one. He has sent drunken texts by accident, or accidently pressed the send button on a message typed in frustration but never meant for the recipients eyes, but that doesn't fit with this. It seems more than coincidence that the text was sent to him, the father of her child, that there is something in the atmosphere that has put him slightly on edge.

"Yes an accident" One of her eyebrows rises, matching his, a dare to question her further. She has crossed her hands across her abdomen; a pose that Mo had once commented was so like his most commonly used stance, and in that she saw how matched their were, that they mirrored each other unconsciously even when they weren't together. It was something he hadn't even noticed until the words had left his friends lips, but now he sees it all the more. They are so different and yet so very similar.

"Jac" He doesn't need to say anything more. The one word, her name, is enough to tell her that he doesn't believe the words that escape her lips. Despite how flat she is, he thinks now he can see something in the depths of her eyes, something she is trying desperately hard to push away but which is slipping ever closer to the surface. She is shuffles slightly in her chair, though he is not certain whether it is discomfort from her pregnant state or from the situation in which she has found herself.

"I just" she pauses, shaking her head causing a wave of auburn hair to flutter over her shoulder obscuring part of her face. He longs to push it from her face, to run his fingers through the fullness of her mane. Pregnancy has given it a sheen and a volume that entices him, causing his hands to itch for the feel of it and yet he has to resist. She doesn't react well to his touch.

"You can tell me Jac" he moves to the edge of the sofa, shifting his body closer to hers and watches as she recoils backwards in to the chair. It is as though his closeness will burn her, it is something from which she has to withdraw. It saddens him that they have gotten to this point, when there was a time they had fought to keep their bodies apart, stealing moments together in closets and cupboards. She blinks, and he tries to imagine her inner-conflict, the battle between honesty and another lie. It is a near constant fight within her, and one rarely won by the truth.

"I'm tired" the answer comes finally, and he can hear in the weary way in which she speaks the exhaustion she feels, but he knows too that this is not the whole story. The tiredness of which she speaks goes beyond the physical drain of pregnancy.

"You're not sleeping properly?" another stupid question that he chides himself for. She had never been a good sleeper, though she had tried to hide this from him. He had felt her body shift and stir against his, as she had battled her way in to the unconscious world though even then her mind did not let her rest. Her sleeping form was rarely still, twisted words mumbled though he could never make sense of them.

"The baby has nocturnal tendencies" as she says the words she rubs at her stomach, an affectionate movement that causes the tiniest of smiles to play on his lips. He has enjoyed those moments, of watching how almost without conscious effort she had started to caress her abdomen almost as soon as it had started to swell. Her arms would form a cradle around the bump as though she was protecting the baby within. He has longed for his hands to join with hers, taken pleasure in the moments when she has allowed him physical contact though as the months have progressed these brief snatches of closeness had decreased. He watches as she swallows hard, "I just want her to be born"

"Her?" his eyes widen at the slip she has made, they had decided – for once a decision made together – not to find out the baby's gender beforehand. It had been him who had wanted to know, while she had shot him down. There are only two options she had told him so it would hardly be a surprise, and anyway she had pointed out no son or daughter of hers would be limited to gender-specific clothing colours so not knowing meant she wouldn't be bombarded with masses of pink or blue. Not that she had been overly inundated with gifts, though he suspected had she agreed to the baby shower Mo had tried to throw her she would have amassed a great deal more.

"Him or Her, it just feels slightly kinder than it" she twists her lips at little, and he can see how very hard she is trying to cover, a flash of something resembling guilt in her face at the realisation of what she has done.

"You could've used Blomp" he says with a smile, and despite herself she laughs before ducking her head to look down at her rounded form, "You know though, don't you?" the words are added, though he needs no answer. Her reaction has confirmed it clearly enough. She runs her hands over the length of her abdomen, feeling the curvature of her baby's spine.

"No" she tries to protest but it is half hearted, "Yes" she tilts her head up slightly to look at him, flashing a slightly apologetic smile.

"And we're having a girl?" he cannot quite hide the excitement in his voice at the idea of a daughter. Over the last few months he has dreamed of his child, of the future they will share and despite his efforts he has never quite managed to summon a son in to his minds eye. The child, the mix of him and her, has always been a daughter.

"Yes" she confirms it softly and his grin widens.

"Our little Blompette" her laugh is much more genuine now as he twists the nickname he had used from early on in the pregnancy. She rolls her eyes too, as she looks up at him.

"You idiot" the words are good natured, and for a moment it feels like old times between them. He had always been able to make her laugh, even in some of the hardest moments between them. And then almost as if she realises she has relaxed too much, she presses herself further back in the chair, hands interlaced.

"Talk to me Jac" he implores her gently once more and she bites down on her lip.

"I need" she twists her fingers nervously together, a habit he has noted before. She draws in her bottom lip, her teeth biting upon it as she pauses, trying to stop herself from saying the words. He watches silently, waiting. The silence that hangs in the air is stifling but he doesn't want to talk, he wants her to do this. He watches as she releases her bottom lip, her mouth moving but no sound is made. It doesn't matter, he can track the movement, the shapes her lips form, the word they make. He sees the conflict in her face, as she tries to make the word audible but fights against doing so. He sits quiet, letting her take all the time she needs.


	4. Chapter 4

**This part is sort of filler-y but I'm hoping it's ok. Thank you to anyone who has read / reviewed and I'm sorry for lack of updates, I've just really struggled with writing!**

"I need" the words just seem to hang there in the air. They sparkle and dance before her eyes, but no matter how hard she tries she just cannot seem to complete the sentence. It torments her, the unfinished sentence, the silence that needs words to puncture it – and seemingly they have to come from her.

She tries to search her mind for what comes next. Only it's much more complicated than she had expected, the words that follow, there are so many of them. They lie in wait, in the hidden depths of her mind, not quite far enough back that she cannot reach them but the distance means they do not come easily. She is scared of retrieving them, of what lies next in line. There is so much there, that darker things are waiting to spring on her, to trap her until they are free from their murky prison. Only their freedom means her destruction, she isn't certain what is there but knows she has blocked them for a reason.

She could try dragging a lie to her lips, but this is the cheats way out and she knows it will no longer work with her silent companion. His green eyes will seek out hers, will see within them the lack of truth in her words and attempt to force the truth. He will try to bring words to her mouth, that she cannot speak and when she cannot speak them his frustration will become apparent. Not in an obvious way, but it's subtle – the way he wants more than she can give.

It is an unequal relationship, even when she wants to give something blocks her, a little voice making it all the harder to continue with the original plan. She had once managed to push passed it, to tell him the truth of her feelings. She had forced herself to give him something that he hadn't offered to her beyond an admission in jest, designed to rile her. And even then, when she had pushed passed the blockades in her mind, she hadn't be offered those words in response, the feeling matched by him.

Perhaps that is why her mind is frozen now. She fears the reaction he will give her - that he will make light of words she has dredged up, that she has forced herself to make audible. She isn't sure in her current state she will be able to handle that, though her potential reaction is anybody's guess. It could lead to an outburst of crying where she struggles to catch her breath as a result of the sobs that are wrenched from her being or she could become angry to the point where yet another projectile – usually the one nearest - is aimed at the wall. This was the rather unfortunate fate that met the DVD player remote when she'd had the misfortunate to watch a television interview in which one of those being interviewed had annoyed her profusely. Or she would end up laughing hysterically, which at the very least gave her the cover of saying it was merely a joke in order to get the other person to laugh along with you.

She watches him now, how he is leaned slightly forward, his eyes turned to her. She has the whole of his attention, and yet she is doing nothing with it. She wants nothing more than to be able to find the words and to have him react in some prescribed way – only she no longer knows quite what that way is. She cannot seem to play these moments in her mind and predict how he could react, nor does she entirely know how she wants him too. She cannot envisage the extremes; what would be perfect and what would destroy her – and the potential of them. She wonders at times whether these extremes are actually so different, that maybe they are interchangeable.

He is an unknown just as she is, and yet he can read her. He can see passed games and exteriors, behind words and actions to know there is something more. He can never read the full story, but he knows it exists beneath the surface. And yet here is Jonny, and she does not know him. He is open and real, and yet she knows little, she has not pushed to learn of him despite his efforts to do so with her. And that scares her, that she loves someone that she does not know. That she has allowed herself to love an unknown entity – but then perhaps that is the safer route – if she knew things, had expectations based on this – he could hurt and disappoint her all the more. And the reality is he will hurt her, just as everyone else does – but it no longer matters, not really because he will have given her, her daughter. Only if he hurts her, their baby girl, will any expectation be dashed. Her child, she has decided, will never know rejection – will never know what she knows. She fears her own abilities, that she will repeat the actions of the past but she is determined.

"I need" she tries again, forcing words from her dry throat. She sees him shift, eyes for a moment alight as he expects something. She knows he won't speak until she has, until she has told him something. It is a frightening prospect, that the silence could remain unbroken until she has the strength to complete this sentence.

"I just want" she tries to change the prefix of her sentence as if that will somehow fix her problem. She looks down at her fingers, at the nervous way in which she picks them. A habit which occurs unconsciously and now she tries to still it, to try to hide the weakness displayed in that simple action. She places one of her now restless hands against her daughter, trying to draw strength from the child who so skilfully saps hers.

"I just want to be her mother" she frowns the words seeming to come from nowhere, and she doesn't altogether understand them. She looks up at him, expecting to see mirth in his eyes, to see his smile and to hear his laugh but instead she sees confusion and perhaps sadness.

"You're already her mother" she shakes her head slightly, her meaning suddenly more clearer in her own mind but she sees not quite making its way to his. Unlike with Mo, he does not share a telepathy with her.

"I want her in my arms Jonny" she whispers the words, "to know she's really here, that she's really mine and that nobody is going to take her away from me" she runs her fingers over her bump, pulling her gaze from him once more to look at the carpet.

"Nobody's going to take her away" she can feel that he's edged closer to her. She closes her eyes, trying to prevent the tears which she can feel building. She's never admitted it, this fear that something will take the baby away from her. The somebody, or some force, will realise their mistake – that Jac Naylor was never meant to be anybody's mother – and rectify the situation. It scares her all the more that the nightmare that haunts her, has her rectifying the situation by walking away from her baby before the baby can be taken from her. It's a dream that leaves her breathless, and scared.

"I need her" the words come in a plea, her sentence seemingly complete, only she knows there is more. She knows that beneath it all, she needs more than her daughter, that they both need more than each other. She looks up and sees the smile on his lips as he reaches out and places a hand over hers, and how he nods his head ever so slightly. She offers him a small smile in return, for once not pulling her hand away. Beneath the skin of her swollen abdomen, she feels her daughters kick and for a moment she closes her eyes, enjoying the moment while it lasts.


	5. Chapter 5

**This part is fairly short but hopefully I'll get part 6 up later today as they kind of go together. Hopefully this is ok (especially given I think I have changed where this is actually going :D )**

Hesitantly he raises a hand to her face, his fingers hovering over her cheeks and the line of tears that slowly fall over their surface. He holds his breath as he gently wipes them away, the lightest of strokes against her skin with only the tip of his finger. It is enough though to cause her eyes to fly open, a flush of red colouring her cheeks as she becomes aware that tears have been shed. He moves his hand away from her cheek, and the other from her rounded belly, the moment broken.

She starts to push herself up from her seat, the movement awkward. He offers her a hand but she bats it away with a look that tells him to offer no further assistance. He knows that if she fails in this task, she will blame him, she will call him every name under the sun because he didn't help her. It's a no win situation, for offering her help is seen as an accusation that she is no longer capable of the most simple of tasks. Finally she is upright, and she takes a moment to balance before she moves away from him.

He doesn't ask her where she is going, he is near certain she will slip in to her bathroom and wipe clean any evidence that she had cried. She will return as if nothing has happened, and he will be expected to pretend the same. It is always the same, the momentary glimpses in to the truth of her emotions – a moment in which what see shows is real and not the result of a hormonal glitch – that is quickly covered up. He can count the number of times it has happened on one hand, and each time he hopes for a change in the game plan, that she will stay present without her armour and barriers but it is never to be.

Returning to the room, he notes that though she has wiped clean her face leaving no evidence of the trail of tears that had streaked its surface, nothing can erase the evidence of her weariness and the pain behind her eyes. She has one hand pressed in to the small of her back, and he is near certain he hears a low groan of discomfort as she manoeuvres her body back down in to her chair.

"We could always try the curry again." he leans forward slightly, and watches as her expression changes. While it had been somewhat presumptuous, he had ordered enough curry for the both of them in the hopes of sharing an evening together, and perhaps even talking a little while they shared a meal. It hadn't quite happened that way, she had taken the food from him as though he was little more than a delivery driver – just stopping short of paying him. He had ended up at the pub with Mo, though he hadn't really been present with her, instead his mind had continually wandered back to her flat.

"If you ever mention that word again." There is something quite unnerving about the way in which she speaks a warning, her voice remaining totally level and yet there is a strong sense of danger. She doesn't even need to finish the threat, because he knows well enough not to try, that the end result could range anywhere from his inability to father any more child to her ignoring him completely. Either way he is not willing to find out.

"You were all for it at the time." He curses himself for his stupidly in speaking. It was his idea, well sort of, his aunt had suggested it to him as a way of getting the baby moving. Apparently it had worked for her sister's daughter's best friend's cousin, or something along those lines, at her suggestion.

"Yeah well I didn't quite realise the effect it would have did I?" at the mere memory of that night she shudders, recoiling slightly in her seat. He frowns. He can't help feeling a little bit guilty that a suggestion of his could have resulted in her being unwell. He should have known the effect it would have, it was the very reason he had vetoed another of his aunts suggestions despite her claiming a fairly impressive success rate.

"You could've phoned me" he hates the idea of her being unwell, and even more so the fact that she would've been alone in the flat. He understands that she is intensely private and that any sign of weakness should be hidden away, to the point where he has spent most of her pregnancy entirely unaware of the reality of how she is feeling. Oh certainly he can guess, but it isn't quite the same as knowing.

"Why Jonny, why would I do that?" he is startled by the tone of her voice, the fact he cannot quite read her intention. He blinks and looks down at his hands as he tries to consider the best way to answer, before he simply relents and decides on the truth.

"Because you're having my baby, Jac," he is almost certain he sees a, quickly masked, look of hurt flash across her face at his words.

"You think I don't know that? You think that just because I'm carrying your baby you have an all-access pass to every part of my life?" he shakes his head, "what do you want, hourly text updates informing you of every bodily function, every foetal movement, because that was never going to happen – I am fine on my own, I can do this on my own and I know that as her father you want involvement but that doesn't mean you need to know everything about me"

"Maybe because I care about you too," he isn't sure why he goes there, it has become something of an unspoken rule that they don't really discuss the status of their relationship. They skirt round the issue of how they will co-parent a baby who seems to have no intention of forcing them to confront the issue by arriving. It is her sharp intake of breath that makes him fully aware of what he has actually said, and though it is the truth he almost wishes he could withdraw the words.


	6. Chapter 6

**I hope this is ok :) **

She tries not to react to those words, but it is harder than she had expected. 'He cares for her', she doesn't even really know that that means – but it is nowhere close to the words she had once longed to hear him utter, the statement to match her own. It hurts that she has perhaps been relegated from someone who deserved a 'love you' to someone he simply cares about, she is certain he has used much more emotive language to Mo and yet she is the one who had once shared his bed and carries within her body, his child. How close had they come to being together properly, to sharing a home and a life, and now this. And yet there is a part of her that is relieved that he still seems to feel something for her, that it is not simply the baby that matters but her as well. The fact there are still emotions involved could make it all the more complicated – she can deal with her own but she isn't so sure that he can.

"We could try that plan of Elliot's?" his words draw her out of her own head, and she is grateful for the switch in conversation, a return to hopefully safer territory. It takes her a moment to process the words and then she grasps them, taking hold of this life raft away from feelings.

"The pizza?" she tries to keep her voice level, to not wrinkle her nose in disgust at the very idea of it. She is surprised that he even knows of it, after the disaster with the curry the professor had mentioned this recipe to her and in desperation she had agreed to try.

"He seemed to think it was a good idea – he came across quite knowledgeable about it really" there is a hint of surprise in Jonny's voice and she can understand that. Matters such as this aren't exactly in the field of knowledge you'd expect of the professor and yet he had somehow managed a convincing argument.

"It's food though, and in that he is most definitely an expert" she smiles, as she thinks fondly of the older man. Jonny laughs at this and nods his head in agreement. If there was ever a person to go to with food related problems, Elliot Hope was definitely your man, especially if those problems related to anything calorie or sugar filled, "But I'm not going to try it again" she adds with a shake of her head.

"You've already tried it?" there is thinly veiled disappointment in his tone and for a moment she considers backtracking, but she knows that this would be futile. Her tongue has let slip too many things and now she is fearful of what else will come.

"mmm" she murmurs it slightly. She knows what he had been hoping, it was the same as the night with the curry, but she cannot handle it. The feeling that he is there but not for her, that if it wasn't for the baby he would be in the pub with Mo or in another woman's bed. His presence fills a room, "and I absolutely hated the thing, Elliot ate most of it"

"Oh" she could curse herself now, for the obvious hurt in his face. It pains her to admit it but Elliot is safe company, and she has become comfortable in his presence. She doesn't feel the ache in her chest with him, instead he is able to hold her mind with conversation. Occasionally he will try to bring the conversation round to her relationship with Jonny but he is wise enough not to press to hard, but intelligent enough to have her discuss it in an indirect way, "I thought the ingredients list looked at bit iffy"

"It took at least a day to get rid of the smell," she forces a smile to her lips, and he matches it though she is near certain it is just as false as hers.

"I'm surprised even Elliot managed to eat it" he is forcing light heartedness, but she knows that he too had seen the ingredient list and was probably well aware of the smell that would have emanated from such a meal. She pushes a stray strand of her behind her ear, as she twists her lips.

"To be honest, it was making me nauseous so he may have eaten it just to get rid of it" it's the sort of little thing the professor has done for her. He had stopped eating foods in the office that turned her stomach, and made sure that any lingering smell of them – if he ate them elsewhere – was long gone. He'd also stashed supplies of the things she enjoyed, to ensure that on the days when she had eaten little, that she would have something to prevent her sugar levels dropping in theatre. He had come to recognise the signs, but he never made a big deal of it, never even mentioned it really. He'd just pass something over to her and ensure she ate it. A part of her knew that should she let him, Jonny would have been much the same but she just couldn't face that.

"My cousin suggested walking, apparently stairs are especially good," there is something hopeful in his face as he makes this suggestion. She sees his game moving the topic along as things get difficult, it's something she tries to do. She rests a hand under her bump.

"Getting down the stairs practically kills me" as she speaks she shakes her head. The only upside of walking is that it would limit conversation. Although on second thoughts it would probably only limit her, she'd be forced to listen to Jonny holding a one-sided conversation which would most likely end in his death at her hand, that's if she hadn't already collapsed due to being unable to catch her breath at all. He frowns realising that she has a point there.

"My sister went in to labour on a bus – really bumpy roads she recommends" She thinks of the roads around Holby, of how pothole avoidance is a near impossibility unless you are turning the roads in to a deathly slalom course which with her still, occasionally, delicate stomach she is still more than a little wary off. Besides which she is not all that fond of public transport and in particular certain buses in this area – along with drivers who she is never entirely sure have actually passed a driving test.

"Not going to happen" she rolls her eyes a little, "any other bright ideas?"

"I think my granny mentioned something about bouncy castles or trampolines" there's a smirk on his face as he says the words, and she tries desperately to work out whether there is any hint of seriousness. She cannot imagine why any woman in her current state would find themselves on either object, and even if they did it is most definitely not something she would be willing to try. She isn't entirely sure that she would attempt either in a non-pregnant state, though she can easily imagine Jonny joining in on them with children.

"Jonny" she doesn't even bother responding to the previous comment, instead she bites her lip nervously. She isn't sure why she is doing this, but somehow she cannot seem to stop herself, "if I asked you to do something, anything, would you?" he tilts his head slightly.

"Nothing illegal?" she almost wants to laugh at his question, the strangeness of it. She dreads to think what he could be expecting her to say – particularly if his granny, auntie or next door neighbour's dog have given him any other suggestions.

"No definitely not illegal, but it might help me" she runs her fingers over the length of her abdomen, part of her wants to back away from this but the louder, stronger part is telling her this is nothing more than getting what she wants, that she has done worse countless times before.

"Then of course I would" he offers her a smile, "I want to meet our daughter as much as you and I know this has been rough on you" there's such kindness in his eyes and that makes it all the harder. She can't approach this emotionally. That little voice telling her to stop, is now screaming – telling her that if she continues with this she will only get hurt. But her need is greater. She forces herself to think of those other times, of having to distance herself from what is happening, dividing your mind until there is no emotional involvement. Just the knowledge, the satisfaction that you are one step closer.

The words fill her mouth, she looks in to his sweet face and her resolve falters slightly. This is Jonny after all. But she can do this, it's too late to back out now.

"I want you to have sex with me"


	7. Chapter 7

**This part originally went different, but in light of today's spoilers, I just couldn't get it to go where I wanted :( Hopefully it is still ok though. **

Blinking rapidly, he tries desperately to convince himself that he has misheard her, but try as he might he knows full well that she is perfectly serious. Only there is something about the way she has set her face that puts him on edge, the blankness that seems to convey little feeling. This is little more than a means to an end to her, and yet to him it can never be just that. She is different in that respect, she had once described their sex as meaningless despite it giving them both the child that she now desperately wishes to give birth too.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" he is certain he has barely managed to conceal the shaking of his voice, something which is quickly confirmed to him by the flicker across her face. The blank canvass briefly showing signs of human life.

"The amniotic sac hasn't yet ruptured so there is no risk to the foetus" her words are cold, clinical. It is the consultant before him, her professional self over-riding the woman and yet he had seen it, he had seen how the woman is fighting to be free.

"I didn't mean that" what he did mean is something of a mystery but it wasn't infection risks that had been passing through his head. She had once again automatically assumed his primary concern was for the baby, and yet that hadn't even really entered his consciousness.

"What then?" she is watching him carefully, if she'd aimed a bright light in his face it would not have felt altogether out of place. He wants to squirm under her gaze, to shrink back against the sofa in the hopes that it will swallow him whole. At least if he were to disappear he wouldn't have to find the words to answer her question, to do so without causing her offense.

"I don't want to hurt you" the words come finally, and he draws in his lip waiting for the response that will come, her rebuttal. The interrogator sat opposite is not easily beaten, particularly when her mind is so very set on something. He knows he could give in, that he could agree to what she has asked but what he has said is the truth, he doesn't want to hurt her.

"I'm not breakable" the response is predictable. His meaning, however, extends beyond the physical. He fears for the fragility of her emotional state. Sex for them has been a game, the entire basis of a relationship in the early stages. It wasn't based on feelings, those had come later. It was those feelings that had snuck up on her, catching her unawares and he had seen her fight against them, trying to deny that they existed until she had admitted to him that she loved him.

"No?" he sees it in her sometimes that the feelings still exist beneath the surface. They both pretend otherwise, that those feelings disappeared in the moments following the breakdown of their relationship, that they are civil purely for their child and professional purposes. But it is never that simple, the feelings lie in wait. He has longed for her to be in his arms, her body spooned against his in sleep, hands joined over the swell of her abdomen. But she has made it clear that this is not on the cards, that she is not interested in pursuing a relationship beyond being co-parents.

"Pregnancy has not rendered me incapable Jonny" she twists her lips for a moment, breaking the mask of professionalism as an almost cheeky smile sneaks to her lips, "we just might have to be a little …. Creative" and then it is gone, the professional returns. It is this that scares him, how she switches between the two. He fears how she will react if they do anything.

"I'm not sure I can do this" he shifts uncomfortably. He fears for himself too, that he cannot quite divide her mind as she can; certainly he has had sex in the past with women he has felt little for but that had been different. He feels for her too much, and that cannot be turned off. If they were together, he thinks he would agree without question, wanting to ease her discomfort – he wants to that now – but he isn't sure at what expense.

"Is it me?" there is hurt in her tone, and for that he feels guilty. "because my body no longer appeals to you?" he thinks of the teasing, of how they have marked her body's change. He knows how Mo has delighted in it. It had never seemed to register that it could affect her, not really. Her skin is tough, and she brushes so much off with a roll of her eyes, a sarcastic comment or a flick of her middle finger. So little seems to reach passed her barriers, he recalls the time her hand had connected with his face, and how one ill-timed comment had caused so much damage.

"You're beautiful Jac" he answers honestly. It is the truth, her once angular body has softened, gaining curves in places where she had been little more than skin and bones. He cannot quite imagine a scenario where she would not be beautiful, particularly to him. She is one of the most unique women he has ever met. She blinks, her own disbelief evident.

"I'm fat Jonny," it is stated in a flat voice, "and you could be out right now, finding a woman who takes your eye and she'll be slim and beautiful not fat and shiny – that's where you should've been going isn't it, to the pub on the pull?"

"I wasn't going on the pull" is that part that he catches on too. He would never really admit it to her but he hasn't been with another woman since her. Mo has tried to get him out, tried at times to point out woman that she thought he'd be suited too but he hadn't been able to force any enthusiasm for the chase – when the only woman worth chasing was constantly changing course. In each woman that Mo found he could only find excuses for why she wasn't quite his type, in reality it was simply 'she's not Jac'. No other woman was comparable to her, no woman as difficult either.

"You've given up sex?" she sounds surprised and he can understand that too.

"I've given up sex with women I don't love" he speaks quietly, not quite meeting her gaze.

"and you don't love me" sadness spikes through her tone though she tries to keep it hidden. He swallows hard. Her words are a stated fact, no place for argument. He looks up to see eyes flecked with pain, though she is battling to put her barriers back up, to regain the cold professionalism that make this easier for her. His own breath catches in his throat.


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you to those reading this and hopefully this is ok :) **

"You can say it Jonny" when he makes no further attempts to speak, she has too. She regrets saying the words, but they had come in to her mouth so naturally. She has tried to convince herself otherwise, and then been scornful of her own stupidity. As she knows all too well, he draws the eyes of ladies with his strange boyish charm, that he would be stupid to choose her, not least because of her oversized abdomen.

"Say what?" she wants to reach out and shake him for trying to play dumb; the fact that he cannot quite look at her face, but instead seems to be concentrating hard on a spot on the arm of her chair.

"That you don't love me" she shakes her head, saying those words aloud is almost soul destroying. She feels the baby shift inside of her, lodging herself in to a new position which is all the more uncomfortable for her mother. In her cramped housing the baby has little choice but to cause her pain, but the pain of that is nothing compared to that which courses through her.

"I can't" he looks up with his head bowed. She could curse him, shout every name under the sun for prolonging this further but she can't, just as he cannot quite say those words to confirm what she is already convinced of.

"I'm not asking for you to love me" it's fruitless to try to force the issue and so she switches track once more, returning to her original goal. She tries to force her mind back, to become colder but the emotions raging within her makes it all the harder, "I'm just asking you to help me" the words come softly, a plea. She can count, probably on one hand, the times she has verbally asked him for help – using both hands she can probably count the times she has asked anyone for help.

"You're asking me to sleep with you" the way he says it tears her in two. She thinks of the times they have had ended up in cupboards, of how he had struggled to keep his hands away from her body within the confines of the hospital, and how beyond closed doors she had been much the same.

"No I am asking you to have sex, just a simple biological function" she tries to think of it that way. It doesn't need to involve the emotions that so many people place on it, it is a biological drive designed to keep the species going. Bringing in feelings and emotions just clouds things; makes it messier and more complicated. With Jonny, things were easier when their relationship was simply physical. But somehow, somewhere along the line it had changed, when she wasn't looking he seeped beneath her skin, feelings which lay dormant awoke, feeding on him and what he brought to her life. Only those pesky feelings have a nasty habit of turning to hurt, to pain. But now she think she can go back, to just having the physical; just one more time.

"But it isn't just that is it?" he is shaking his head, "not with us, Jac, it can't ever just be sex with us"

"Then don't think of it as sex" she runs a head over her forehead, smoothing back her hair, "think of it as an induction of labour"

"Jac" he sounds exasperated, like he cannot quite believe what she is saying to him. She wishes he could see inside of her head, just to see these thoughts and her reasoning – nothing more than that. She wishes he could feel the weight in her uterus and how that changes so much. If only he could feel her desperation for this, perhaps then he would understand, "Can't you go for a sweep?"

"Do you have a vagina?" the words come quickly to her mouth and he shakes his head, "no vagina, no opinion – when you can experience a sweep for yourself then you can suggest it to me" she recalls how the midwife had attempted one on her days before, and she ended up using some choice language.

"Alright, so a sweep is out, but surely you could go for an actual induction?"

"I don't want them putting hormones in to my body" she shudders at the thought of it. She knows she shouldn't be she looks far too many things up in journals, in the BNF to the point where she is far too aware of the risks. She knows if it were her patient, she would look at things differently but when it comes to herself she is unable to sees only the risks and not the positives. She is unskilled in the practice of taking care of herself.

"If you won't help yourself Jac" he is tiring of her, just as she is tiring of him and his inability to see things from her perspective. But then she is somewhat blind to his.

"I'm trying to help myself by asking you for help" she speaks quietly.

"You've been pushing me away for months, and now all of a sudden when it suits you, you need me" he shakes his head, "I've been trying to be involved, to help you and all you do is shove it back in my face."

"Would you rather I went out and found someone else?" there is something in that the seems to bring him to his sense, his head shoots up from it's bowed position. She sees his eyes searching hers, trying to see if she is being serious with those words, whether she truly is desperate enough to do so.

"Jac?" it's a question that she doesn't want to answer. It is one she cannot answer, because she is not certain herself of what it would be. It is something that scares her, the desperation to hold her daughter and the lengths she would potentially go too. She isn't certain she has ever known a need so great.

"Your semen contains prostaglandins, natural ones not the synthetic ones in prostin" she forces her clinical mind to take over for a second, "and that can help to ripen the cervix, to make it efface which will bring me closer to labour and aid dilation when I start contracting"

He looks at her like she has grown a second head, and she sighs.

"and once you presumed a rating of 10 for your so called 'sexual fireworks display', well now you can put that too good use" again she is trying to keep her voice cool, but she sees how his expression changes. She tries to push away the memory, "sex can release oxytocin which in turn can stimulate the uterus to contract"

"I'm still not sure" she can hear the waver in his voice, how he is potentially coming around to her way of thinking. She presses her lips together. She has her ace card, the one she has waited to play – hoping she wouldn't have to but all the while keeping it close. She thinks she knows him well enough that it'll work, especially now he is so very close.

"Jonny, it was you who put this baby in here" she rests a hand against her abdomen, his eyes drawn there for a second before he nods his head, a look of confusion passing over his face as he meets her gaze, "well now it's your job to get her out."


	9. Chapter 9

**Oops it's been absolutely forever since I've updated this (and pretty much all my fics - sorry! I'm hoping to improve on this). I really hope this is alright, I've kind of forgotten what the original plan was for this part although I do still know what the plan is for the fic overall - and I'm determined to get this one finished. I hope this part is ok, because I feel like I've not written in forever and just I don't know ... :-/ Thank you to anyone who reads this. **

He draws his eyes away from her face, unable to bear for a second longer the desperation and pain that are reflected in her eyes. He knows she has used the last weapon in her arsenal. He had seen it in the way her face had changed before she had spoken the words, before she had resumed, bar her eyes, a look of cold professionalism. It is a look which is hard for him to bear, in a situation which makes him feel strange and uncomfortable.

If things were different they would be ripping each-others clothes off, no conversation of this nature would have been needed due to the sense of urgency that would have sparked between them. He had struggled to resist her, even in the moments when he should have hated her he had been unable to. There was something about her that intoxicates and entices him, and left him wanting more than she could give. There was a physicality to their relationship, but he had felt the beginnings of something more; the shift and change as it started to seep beneath the surface. It had changed to the point where it wasn't just the physical act of sex that he craved but rather the act of sleeping together, wrapped in each-others arms. If over the last few months she had asked that of him, he would have jumped at it, he would have held her with hands clasped over her abdomen as she sleep and the knowledge that he could awaken her the next day with delicate butterfly kisses.

But that is not what she is asking of him. She isn't asking him for love; she isn't asking him because she wants to have a relationship with him but rather because he is at least partly responsible for the situation which she is in. He could have been any man sitting before her, and yet he had seen the look in her eyes when he had been unable to tell her how he feels, and the grim realisation in her face when her belief had been validated. It had ripped at his heart that momentary look in her face, and the knowledge that he couldn't take that from her.

It isn't that he doesn't feel, he feels too much for her and telling her so leaves him vulnerable. He cannot risk it now, not when there is someone involved who is so much more important than either of them. The dream is still so clear in his head, that desire for the perfect future but he cannot wish that for that any longer, because he cannot keep rebuilding what has been broken; there are only so many fixes he can make before the cracks are too numerous. And yet when there is the hint of vulnerability in her, he cannot help but find those words in the back of his throat, and the pain of having to swallow them back down. He is causing them both pain, and yet he sees no way he can relieve it for either of them.

He swallows hard, and forces himself to look back up in to her face. She is watching him carefully, her expression unreadable beyond the eyes that seem set to destroy him. It is the cold professionalism that makes this harder for him. Perhaps if she had asked him differently, his hesitation would not have been so prominent. He cannot quite shift that fact that sleeping with someone so heavily pregnant does make him feel slightly uncomfortable but he is certain that if things were different between them that would not have been an issue.

"Jonny," she says his name, and it draws him from his thoughts; the slight pleading tone that begs him to talk, to put her out of her misery. He sees the restless way in which her hands move, itching to do something though he cannot guess at what, and yet her face remains set in the professional mask.

"Jac," he matches her with the use of her name, knowing that he has no words to follow. It's a dance; a game which is impossible to win. There can be no winners in this. She closes her eyes for a second, allowing him a brief respite before she looks at him once more.

He can see a conflict in her face, the way she battles with herself as if trying to work out what move to make next. She is skilled in battle, but he knows her resources are weakened. She has little left to give but she cannot give up because she needs this. While he too longs for their baby, he knows he cannot feel it quite as acutely as she does, nor can he quite claim to understand the intensity or reason behind her own feelings.

"Please" the words fall from her lips, and he sees the mask slip and what is left behind. It startles him to take her in with clear eyes. Her skin so naturally pale, is tinged a hue which exudes exhaustion, a weariness that goes deeper than her bones extending through every fibre of her being. Before him, she is weakened, fragile and cracking. He can see how close she is to breaking and yet he sees something like hope beneath that pain and desperation. She places so much on this child on whose arrival she waits but there is something more than he cannot bring himself to acknowledge.

Instead he looks about the room, and sees in it the changes that he has failed to notice before. It is less like he remembers, it was a cold impersonal space; clean almost to the point of sterility and yet he can see things now which are out of place to what he remembers. Items which have fallen to the floor, and not been returned to their rightful place; and a thin layer of dust that surprises him. He sees in a place easily reached a bottle of gaviscon that looks more than half empty despite appearing to him gargantuan in size, and then he looks back to her and sees in her face that she has been tracking his gaze and knows what he has seen. He releases the breath he didn't realise he was hold.

"Ok."


End file.
